He’d never been so unsure of himself.
Younger women were easy to read—impulsive, eager, quick to undress. But she? She just lay back in that low-lit room, the soft silk of her slip clinging to every curve like it had known her for years. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only looked at him—steady, calm, and entirely in control.
He hovered above her, waiting for a signal. Something. Anything.
But all she did was part her lips slightly, exhale with a breath that was almost a hum, and let the silence thicken between them.
He reached for her thighs—tentative, respectful—and she stopped him with just a glance. Not a “no.” Just… not yet.
His hands fell to the bed, unsure of their purpose now. And in that pause, he realized—she was teaching him something. This wasn’t about taking. This was about earning. She wanted him to feel her power, not just her body.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, she slowly shifted—barely noticeable at first. One leg moved. Then the other. A graceful, deliberate opening that had nothing to do with submission and everything to do with permission.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
She hadn’t said a word. But somehow, he understood her perfectly: real pleasure doesn’t rush. It lingers. It makes you tremble. It makes you remember.